


The dying terrorist

by MsMxyzptlk



Category: Jahar Tsarnaev
Genre: Blood, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, Sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsMxyzptlk/pseuds/MsMxyzptlk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Remember when “Jahar coming into your house during the manhunt” was a common storyline? I thought about writing that plot, too – until I read the official report of his injuries. Combined with the Boston magazine photos of his capture, I realized that it was unrealistic (to put it mildly) for Jahar to be ready to make love during that day and night.</p><p>But what if I set “realistic” aside?</p><p>What if I wrote from the border between reality and dreams?</p><p>What if I wrote a prose-poem about a dying terrorist entering an open door, and encountering a woman alone? What if this woman puts aside her fear and does what she can to make this young man’s last moments of life happy? What if desperate need pushes the young man’s body to superhuman feats?</p><p>What if?</p>
    </blockquote>





	The dying terrorist

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when “Jahar coming into your house during the manhunt” was a common storyline? I thought about writing that plot, too – until I read the official report of his injuries. Combined with the Boston magazine photos of his capture, I realized that it was unrealistic (to put it mildly) for Jahar to be ready to make love during that day and night.
> 
> But what if I set “realistic” aside?
> 
> What if I wrote from the border between reality and dreams?
> 
> What if I wrote a prose-poem about a dying terrorist entering an open door, and encountering a woman alone? What if this woman puts aside her fear and does what she can to make this young man’s last moments of life happy? What if desperate need pushes the young man’s body to superhuman feats?
> 
> What if?

Warnings, warnings everywhere.  
Shelter in place  
Lock your doors  
A terrorist is on the run  
Be on the lookout...  
I turn off the television.  
My head is so full of news and updates and talk talk talk, it can take no more.  
What can I do, anyway?  
I don’t know the two young men, not the living nor the dead one.  
I have no story to tell.

I pick up the pale pink mug which holds my morning tea.  
I open the back door and look at the tiny yard behind the house, wondering what to do.  
I could not go to the grocery store.  
I could not return my library books.  
I could not even go outside –

Sighing, I close the door before the yard tempts me further.  
I walk back to the living room –

A creak and a bang interrupt me.  
I turn around.

A wraith in charcoal gray stands in my kitchen.  
His right hand grips the countertop for support.  
His left hand drips blood onto the white tiles of the floor.  
A gleaming red veil covers his face.

His mouth is open, but does not speak.

I do not see an intruder here.  
I see a wounded creature.  
Someone who needs all of the gentleness and care I can give.

I walk to his right side and let him grip me for support.  
He leans hard on me, but he is not heavy.  
I wrap my arm around him and walk him to the guest bedroom.

When there, I peel the pale blue seersucker cover off the full-size bed with one hand,  
Revealing an expanse of white sheet.  
I lead him to the softness of the bed.  
He carefully lowers himself, as if his bones are as thin as a bird’s.

This young man’s left side is wrecked.  
The wound on his left hand leaves it streaked with blood.  
His sweatshirt is encrusted with dry and semi-dry crimson stains.  
And his face...

From his left ear outward spreads an explosive wound  
That continues to bleed out.  
I don’t need a medical degree  
To see that this wound may be fatal if not closed soon.

I jump to my first impulse and reach for the phone on the nightstand –  
Not to bring police, but the healers who can actually help him.

A gray blur shoots toward my hand.  
He has me by the wrist, using the hand that was still able to grab.  
It is a powerful grip.  
A grip honed by years of practice.  
A grip I cannot ignore.

I look into the young man’s eyes.  
NO, they scream.  
Not the angry NO.  
The scared NO.

I back away from the phone and smile at him, letting him know that I am harmless.  
I think he may have tried to smile back.

Then...

The curly ink-colored hair, the caterpillar-like eyebrows...  
Where have I seen them before?

The features before me coalesce into a photo in my memory banks.  
This is the terrorist on the run.

But he is no longer running.  
He is here. In this bed.  
So close...  
Not armed.  
Not dangerous.  
Not at all.

A “decent” woman would call the police as soon as she recognized that face.  
A “decent” woman would burn with righteous hate for this terrorist.

I am not a “decent” woman.  
I want to comfort him.  
I want to care for him.  
I want to bring happiness to what could be his last moments of life.  
Is that so wrong?

His left hand lifts as much as it is able.  
I ask him if he is hungry or thirsty.  
He nods weakly.  
I rush to the kitchen and bring back quick sustenance:  
A blueberry cereal bar, and a bottle of water.  
Plus a cold washcloth to cover the wound on his face.

I feed him as carefully as I would a baby bird.  
He nibbles and sips daintily, as if he cannot believe that someone would be kind to him.  
His lips are cracked; his tongue, parched.

When he is finished, he looks up at me with the meek eyes of gratitude.  
I place the empty bar wrapper and water bottle on the table.  
I do not want to take my eyes off him,  
Not even to go to the wastebasket.

He does not speak,  
And his silence brings greater intimacy to our actions,  
For we have to look into each other’s eyes,  
Watch each other’s gestures,  
to discover what to do next.

What do you need from me? I ask.

I don’t need you to save me, he says silently.  
Just redeem me.  
Remind me that I’m human.

He begins to weep.

I get into the bed with him.  
I brush my lips against his,  
tasting his bloody tears.  
They are harsh, like the iron they contain.  
No way around it, he is going to come to a harsh, ugly end.

But...  
Like the final fairy in the Sleeping Beauty tale  
Who softened the princess’s fate from death to sleep  
Can I soften his dying with a touch of joy?

My conscience has a question:  
Why comfort a terrorist?  
My heart has an answer:  
I don’t see a terrorist here.  
All I see is a broken young man.  
A young man who, not too long ago, wasn’t a terrorist at all.

I kiss him, and wrap my arms around his neck  
Carefully, respecting his injuries.  
The washcloth slips from his face.

I hear my heart beat faster.  
The closer I get to him, the closer I want to get.

I am not the only one thinking like this.  
His eyes lower,  
tracing the curves of my breasts.  
Can I see them? they ask.

I have no power to deny those hurting, hungry eyes.

I lift up my nightgown and toss it behind me.  
I am nearly naked to him now, except for the white cotton around my hips.

His eyes widen.  
He did not expect ever to see female flesh again.  
He is still, holding his breath.  
I take his right hand and place it on the soft half-globe of my left breast.

Even wounded, the color rushes to his cheeks.

His bloody left hand touches my right one –  
For it cannot grasp –  
And leads it to the unmistakable hardness under his jeans.

His eyes say, I want you.

Do I dare give myself to him?

My God, how can I not?

He lifts both his hands as far as they can go.  
Carefully, as if I am peeling dead skin from a sunburn,  
I pull the sweatshirt off of his form.  
His skin is almost as white as the sheet.  
He has no excess flesh; it clings to the planes of his chest and abdomen like a membrane,  
Only making him look even more fragile.

He lets out a relieved breath, then looks down.  
I carefully unfasten his belt and unbutton his jeans,  
Slowly sliding them down his slender legs.  
He winces as I uncover a gaping wound in his right thigh.  
I find my nightgown and wrap it around the broken flesh.  
It is all I can do.

He looks down at me, his eyes wide with desperation.  
Please, he begs, uncover all of me.  
I hook my fingers in the elastic waistband of his dark underpants.  
I keep my eyes on his pale hips, the thin wispy hairs on his legs,  
His long and bony feet.

Only when he is completely naked can I look up.

His phallus is fully upright, fully ready, engorged with fresh blood.  
An impossible erection...or one built with a desperate desire?  
His eyes, his dark, burning eyes, hold the answer.

For him, there is no time for courtship.  
No time for get-to-know-you conversation, no time for flowers and dinners.  
He needs to get down to the elemental, now:  
He needs a woman to let him all the way inside.

I know what to do.  
I come up to him, face-to-phallus.  
I lick it until it is wet enough.  
No time to ask questions, no time to look for a condom.  
There is none to be had in this house.

I rise further, until we are face-to-face.  
I take off my underwear, the last physical barrier between us.  
I place my hand on his left shoulder.  
Lie down, my eyes say.

No, he replies.

He raises his left hand and taps my right elbow.  
He lowers his hand, and I follow its direction until I lie on my left side.

He doesn’t want to be the passive one.  
Not even in his condition.

It is the wounded one who gets all his wishes.  
So I let him be dominant.

Awkwardly, he takes his manhood in his right hand  
And leads it to me.  
I help him by getting close,  
By opening myself with my fingers.

All I am, all I have, is yours.  
We both agree.

He lets me sheath him at first.  
But he takes over from then on.  
It is a strange position.  
He is not completely on top, or on his side.

I grab pillows and shove them behind my back for support.  
I need these pillows,  
For this young man takes me as if this will be his last time.

It is.

It must hurt him as much as pleasure him.  
His facial expressions mirror that of a torture victim.  
But he does not stop.  
He will not stop.  
He is a trembling pillar of urgency.

This is all I have left to give, he says.  
Take it.  
Take it all.

Am I looking at a prince from a dark fairy tale?  
Skin so white, hair so black, blood so red?

He kisses me harder.  
The blood streams faster from his face,  
Trickling down to his throat and chest  
And onto my breasts.  
Life flowing out above  
As it would flow down below.

I can feel his yearning with each deep, powerful thrust.  
Yearning for all of the stars in the sky to fall down upon him,  
Tearing his agonized human body to shreds,  
Sending his cells back into the sea of eternity.

His hips pound against me,  
The hardest they ever have,  
And I feel it.

The splash of his ecstasy,  
Filling me with his need and his seed.

He opens his mouth wide and lets out a little sob.  
It is the only sound he can make.

I pray that it is beautiful for him.

When it is over, he collapses onto the bed,  
Curling up like a snail encountering salt.

I stay close to him.  
He shrinks inside of me, a little bit  
But still stays inside.

Don’t let me go, not yet.

His left index finger touches my lips.  
His eyes glow as brightly as stars seen from an uncivilized field.

Do you love me? his eyes ask.  
Do you love me, in spite of what I have done?  
Do you love me for now and forever?  
Do you?

Yes, I do.

I touch my lips to his  
And whisper these words into his mouth as I spell them with my finger on his chest.

I love you, Dzhokhar.

His head sinks into the pillow.  
The message has reached him, both ways.  
He blinks, twice, then closes his eyes.

I gently lift his left arm  
And wrap it around my head.

We sleep.

At what moment do two heartbeats become one?  
At what moment does he slip away to the world which the living cannot know?  
Perhaps at the moment when I see him in my dream,  
His flesh intact, his face smiling, his arms holding me as if I were the most precious object in the world.

Hours march on, without either of us knowing it.

My husband is the one who finds us.  
Two bodies entangled atop a crimson-stained sheet,  
One paler than the other.  
My hand pasted to his cheek, bonded with nearly-dry blood.  
Our lips and hips too close for anyone’s comfort.  
Except mine.

I won’t tell too much  
About how the police pried the dead terrorist away from me,  
How they were quick to cover him with a sheet as if he were a shameful object,  
Like feces or vomit,  
And spirit him away with lowered heads.

I have much to talk about with my husband.  
Or not.  
Perhaps some secrets need to remain secret.  
They are so fragile that they would shatter to pieces  
And re-form in strange ways under the wrong scrutiny.

Words cannot describe  
What words did not express.

All I know is that pieces of the terrorist live inside of me.  
Invisible gems to be my treasure, no matter what.  
He carried away pieces of me, too.  
Did he know that?

Days later, when we were all free to go outside,  
I go into the backyard and find a fluffy white feather  
Resting in the grass.

I want it to have fallen from the wings of an angel.  
An angel whose name I know.  
An angel whose love overcame his sin.

I wish.


End file.
